


Adventures in the Slav Trade

by ImpOfPerversity



Category: Baroque Cycle - Neal Stephenson, Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-16
Updated: 2009-06-16
Packaged: 2018-10-23 13:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10720536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpOfPerversity/pseuds/ImpOfPerversity
Summary: It's onerous, most objectionably onerous, being a Pirate Lord.  Now that the equinoctial storms are underway, any captain with a scrap of sense has beached his ship for careening and is spending his days -- and his ill-gotten gains -- on dry land: and so, perforce, is Jack Sparrow.





	Adventures in the Slav Trade

They're unloaded from the barge like so many cattle, coffle-chained to keep them in line and on their feet. Just in case any of 'em should be reluctant to leave the stinking hold for dry land, there's a Turk at either end of the gangplank, encouraging the captives with clubs. Barbossa glowers at the guards as he shuffles past.

There's another huddled gang of ne'er-do-wells on the quay, decked out with shackles and chains like the half-dozen louts who've been Barbossa's entertainment on the long arduous journey -- barge, road, goat-track, rattling cart, barge again -- from the stinking brig where he'd woken after that damned hurricano that beset the _Maiden_ off Tripoli. He doesn't know what's become of his crew (though the scurvy dogs ain't mounting a rescue.) He doesn't know where in the world he's washed up, but he's damned sure he don't care for it.

And what's the point an' purpose of making hisself Pirate Lord if he's still victim to fate and happenstance, to shipwrack and slavery? It's scant months since he set about arranging affairs to his liking in the Caribbean: and if he's absent much longer, t'will all to be done again.

Assuming he's not doomed to eternity in this lubberly hellhole, wheresoe'er it be.

The Turks -- might as well call 'em Turks as anything -- are moving amongst their prisoners, pairing them up; by weight and height, it seems, so each two'll move at the same pace and each man's counterweight to his companion, in case of stumbling, exhaustion, death. A couple of fellows died crossing the mountains. Barbossa didn't mourn them a moment: more vittles for the rest of 'em.

Barbossa's being chained to a yellow-haired bruiser who's clearly been cold-cocked once too often: he's not putting up any sort of a fight. Worse, he's bestowing a sunny smile on the fellow who's manhandling him. Pitiful behaviour for a man no older than Barbossa himself, in the peak o' his strength and the prime o' his life.

"D'ye know who I am?" Barbossa demands, nudging the Turk and getting a desultory cuff and a curled lip for answer.

Blondie rolls his eyes. "Sure they know who you are," he says, in good English. "You're the irritating bastard who won't shut the fuck up, and you'll be first on the auction block when we get to market."

Barbossa aims a kick at his new shacklemate, but t'other sees it coming: the chain grinds into Barbossa's calf, and he bellows, and the Turk strides back and jabs his staff at Barbossa, expostulating in some heathen tongue.

"He says your mother was a whore," supplies Blondie. "And your --"

"I've the gist of it, thankee," grumbles Barbossa, though in truth he din't catch more'n one word in ten of their babble. Still, some things don't need explication.

"So!" says Blondie, rolling his shoulders and adjusting the iron shackle so's not to chafe his sinewy wrist. "What brings you to these enlightened parts? Oh, I do beg your pardon: Jack Shaftoe, from Wapping."

"Barbossa," grudges Barbossa. "Captain Hector Barbossa. And where _be_ these enlightened parts, eh?"

Shaftoe shrugs. "Turkistan, I'd say, or Armenia: this lot are Armenian, but you c'n find Armenians everywhere. Captain, you say? Misplaced your ship, have you?"

Barbossa weighs the pros and cons of conversation. On the credit side: actual speech, in English, and perchance an opportunity to learn more of his current (shackled, bruised, lice-pecked) situation. On the debit: this Shaftoe fellow's pestilential as pox, and clearly lunatick, considering his relaxed demeanour in said situation (shackled, bruised and lice-pecked, and chained up with a dozen or so other captives).

"Temporarily," he counters.

"'Cause you're a long way from the sea," pursues Shaftoe. "Least, it's been river and road this fortnight past, since we made port. Though your gang came in from the west."

"River and road," concurs Barbossa. Has he ever been this far from the clean salt ocean? It's not right, not natural. "Objectionable way to travel."

"Safer in company, mind," notes Shaftoe. "And they feed and water us. Don't knock it, mate: if you're aiming to cross Asia, this is as good a way as any."

"I've no interest in any such pastime," growls Barbossa. "I've business in the Caribbean, and a fine ship waiting for me."

"Happy to hear it," says Shaftoe. "S'pose you'll be on your way once we've broken our fast, eh?" Nodding at the Turks -- Armenians -- who're doling out gritty bread and chipped clay cups (one to a pair) of water.

"Don't see as you're in any different straits."

"Ah, but I am, y'see: 'cause I'm playing nice with these fine gents, playing their game, not giving them trouble, being an _exemplary_ Trade Item. And when push comes to shove, you c'n be sure they'll play along with me."

"What game's that, then?" Barbossa grabs the cup before his shacklemate can nab it, and narrows his eyes at Shaftoe.

"The game of honest profit: Œconomics, they call it."

"And what profit's in this for you, Mister Shaftoe?"

"A guided tour of these salubrious regions," says Shaftoe, grunting as a yank on the coffle-chain indicates that departure's imminent. "A modicum of sustenance, an armed escort, and the probability of fetching up on the road to rich Cathay."

* * *

Jack Shaftoe (contrary to any impression he might've given to the ginger bloke with the unfortunate beard) has only the vaguest notion as to where in the world he might be. Somewhere in the lands of the Turk, for sure: somewhere, hopefully, on the Silk Road to Cathay, where (that notorious blabbermouth Rumour had it) there's fortune and fame aplenty for any man in possession of both a sword and his wits. True, Jack's sword is presently in the custody of Pagur, the leader of this merry band of slavers: his wits, though, are keenly honed, and he's keeping a sharp eye out for Opportunity.

Pagur's a decent enough bloke, for a heathen slave-merchant. Jack acquired a rudimentary knowledge of the Armenian tongue whilst lodging in Paris last winter: he's been exercising it on his captors since the morning he'd surfaced to a hellish hangover (not improved by the clank and rattle of ironware adorning his extremities) in the stables of an inn near Constantinople and discovered that his amiable fellow-travellers ("many may travel safely, sir, where one man might be taken!") had become less amiable and more … œconomically minded.

Over the last few weeks, shuffling along at the pace of the slowest bit of merchandise -- not that Jack's in a particular hurry to get wherever they're going -- he's become quite fluent in the slavers' lingo. Mikael's plagued by boils, the result of inadvertently crossing some old crone. Bardev's considering chucking in the slaving lark and setting up as a shopkeeper. And Pagur's saving up to get married: Jack's halting Armenian is sufficient for him to share his considerable experience of the female sex, and now Pagur's his good mate.

Shame he'll be flogging Jack to the highest bidder as soon as they reach market.

This Barbossa fellow's an improvement on Jack's previous companion, an elderly Frank much given to prayer whose pious mutterings now emanate from somewhere further back in the procession. He's Jack's match in height and weight, and he's sunburnt and scarred in a way that intimates he's a formidable fighter: a good bloke to have at your back if (as Jack profoundly hopes) there's trouble brewing. True, Barbossa's a self-confessed pirate, and Jack is watchful for any indication of the lewd behaviour that'd made Port Royal such a tedious stopover. But whatever Barbossa's other crimes -- a rich and varied array, recounted with grisly relish -- he doesn't seem interested in Jack's arse.

"... and then they made me Pirate Lord," Barbossa's saying. "'Course, the Caribbean's o'errun with upstart English, vagabonds," he flicks a sharp, knowing glance at Jack, who's gloveless and visibly branded, "libertarians: but there's fine..."

Jack rolls his eyes and tries to ignore the extravagantly piratickal utterances of his shacklemate. In other circumstances (for instance, if he'd chosen Ginger's company of his own free will, instead of being chained to him) he might've countered with some extravagant, and more nearly truthful, tales of his own: as it is, he'll be damned if he gives Barbossa aught that might be used against him. (In Jack's experience, almost any personal confidence can be turned 'gainst the man who admits it.) 'Sides, that snipe at Vagabonds was pointed as a question, albeit one that Jack's not inclined to answer. So he lets Barbossa's tale -- a collation of risible improbabilities and familiar scraps of story -- wash over him: he's more interested in the lie of the land than the lies of the self-professed Pirate Lord Barbossa.

The road's climbing steadily, mountains looming to the west (Jack's leg muscles remember crossing them) and a hazy shimmer of sea off to the east. And somewhat north, a dark hazy clot on the horizon gradually resolves itself into the regular shapes of Architecture.

"Not that I want to interrupt your fascinating anecdote," fibs Jack when he can get a word in edgeways, "but I think we're nearly there."

* * *

Pagur and his entourage veer away from the road at dusk, heading for an inn in the shadow of the gatehouse. Jack gets a turn at the pump to clean the worst of the filth from himself, and the stew that night is thick enough that he has to use his fingers to clean out the bowl.

"Tomorrow you will meet your new Lord!" announces Pagur, with a ferocious grin. "Tomorrow we shall bid you farewell!"

"Haste the moment," growls Barbossa.

The sun's a handspan above the horizon by the time they enter the city next morning: "Baku," says Mikhail, "this is Baku, where our Lord may be found when he is not voyaging on his mighty ship."

Jack flicks a glance at Barbossa, who shakes his head. Neither of them has ever heard of Baku. They could be anywhere.

The city's designed for defence, as is evident to any man who's done his share of soldiering. The streets are narrow and mazy, and Jack's knack of learning a new town shrivels under the plethora of sensation assaulting him. The rich reek of perfume and spice, underlaid with a harsh alchemical odour; the babble of people, chattering nonsense in at least three languages and occasionally interrupting themselves to call greeting to Pagur or abuse to his wares; men in rich robes, women swaddled to the eyeballs in heavy dark cloth; hard paving-stone under Jack's increasingly worn boots; the mouthwatering aroma of roasting meat.

Suddenly Pagur bellows an order, and the guards surround their slaves and herd them through an archway: through, into a garden with a fountain, and birdsong, and a foppish, foreign-looking type, lolling in a chair like a throne, swigging from a bottle and sucking on a clay pipe.

Jack's immediate assay indicates to him that he could take this bloke with one hand tied behind his back. If this is his new 'master', he won't --

"Jack!" cries Barbossa inexplicably, and Jack Shaftoe finds himself stumbling forward in his shacklemate's wake.

* * *

It's onerous, most objectionably onerous, being a Pirate Lord. Now that the equinoctial storms are underway, any captain with a scrap of sense has beached his ship for careening and is spending his days -- and his ill-gotten gains -- on dry land: and so, perforce, is Jack Sparrow.

Not that the tedium's unalloyed. There's a rich and varied succession of entertainments available to Jack in his present capacity. Troupes of dancers, lithe lads and buxom lasses, perform for him at the drop of a hat; the local liquor, an eyewatering distillation made from fruit or possibly goat-dung (Jack's not up to speed on the lingo yet), does a fair job of glossing each day with a bright shellac of inebriation; and if Jack lacks nocturnal company some nights, it's because he chooses to sleep alone.

The Brethren Court'd awarded him this endorheic exile mendaciously, maliciously ... "Mmm," says Jack aloud, experimentally: then, "Bastards." He'll show them that Jack Sparrow can produce a profit, pillage a plunder, and play pirate even in this pox-ridden plaguey millpond of a soi-disant Sea. Jack takes another long draught from the bottle. He has his _Pearl_ , after all, and his Antique Charts and the _Black Pearl_ can take him anywhere, anywhere at all.

No rush.

An irruption of noise and colour heralds the arrival of another gaggle of excitable locals, doubtless delivering some new tribute or gift or the like. But wait: is that not an English voice amid the din? Intrigued, Jack sits up straight for a better look.

Bloody hell. Slaves again, a round dozen. Well, proto-slaves: there are twists of rope and metal adorning the narrow parts of their bodies, and they're grey with road-dust and fatigue, but their demeanours seem insufficiently servile. And at least one of 'em -- a broad-shouldered redhead, sunburnt and bearded and sporting an earbob which, come to think of it, he won from Jack -- is unsuited by temperament to any form of submission: bellowing Jack's name, he wrests free from the man restraining him, barging t'wards Jack until a swift knock from Pagur's cudgel leaves him measuring his (considerable) height on the dusty tiles of the courtyard.

"How delightful!" cries Jack into the relative silence. "More presents!"

Most of the captives wear the sullen, surly look of men who expect the worst and are exasperated, but seldom surprised, by it. Jack, who doesn't care for slavery, decides he'll wait 'til Pagur and his lot are out of the way -- only polite, really -- then grant 'em their manumission, assuming they know what to do with it. But then there's Hector Barbossa -- now what's _he_ doing here, so far from his demesne? -- stirring and groaning already, set to be mad as a stoat when he finds himself the property of his old acquaintance Jack Sparrow. And his chain-mate -- Frankishly blond, well-muscled, sunburnt beneath the dirt -- who was dragged to his knees when Hector fell, is glaring at Jack: a blazing blue glare that sparks something hot in Jack's belly.

"My thanks to you, Pagur Bey," Jack says hastily. "What say you and your men seek refreshment indoors, eh?"

"There is the matter of payment," says Pagur, flat-eyed.

"There's the matter of you acquiring a better class of tribute," snaps Jack. "Look at 'em! A verminous crew, and fit for naught. _Not_ fit for a Pirate Lord, though obviously you're out of practice on that count, not having had any such Lord in living memory. Sheer luck you got _me_ , really." He pauses a moment, attempting to recapture his flittery thoughts. "Tribute is good. Tribute is fine. But can you not bring me … dusky maidens? Gold? Rum?"

Pagur looks betrayed. "It is our way, Lord, our ancient --"

"I'm the Pirate Lord, right?" says Jack.

Pagur nods.

"Then my traditions count for more than your traditions, savvy? And my traditions don't include slaves."

"But the dusky maidens --"

"Entirely different," says Jack quickly: he can see the mocking twist of Barbossa's smile under that nasty excuse for a beard. "Here." He rummages in a pocket, tosses Pagur a clinking purse. "No more slaves, right?"

"Yes, Lord," says Pagur, weighing the purse in his palm. "Shall we take them away?"

"Take 'em indoors," directs Jack. "Have 'em fed and watered."

"All of them, Lord?" says Pagur, with minimal meekness.

"All -- no, wait," Jack interrupts himself. "Leave these," he gestures at prone Barbossa and kneeling Blondie, "for now. The one with the rusty over-oiled beard'll make an excellent bilge-scrubber. And the other ... _personal_ services, I think."

The blue glare redoubles, and Jack has to struggle to suppress a wicked grin, at least 'til Pagur and his mob have departed.

"My most abject and profound apologies," says Jack then, to his latest acquisitions. "They're a mite old-fashioned hereabouts: apparently there's a grand old tradition of enslavement. Slavs, y'know. It's all in the name."

"Sparrow!" growls Barbossa, lurching to his knees in a jangle of metalwork. It's a good look on him, though Jack s'poses he'll have to do something about the jewellery soon, or run the risk of a quick back-stabbing some dark night. (No change there.)

Though ... hmmm. There's a notion forming, nebulous but bright, in Jack's mind.  
  
"So where, exactly, are we?" the blond fellow demands. "And who the hell are you?"

"You're in Baku, mate," says Jack with a demonstrative sweep of his arm, indicating birds (singing), trees (over-pruned), local rot-gut (in a fancy jug), silk canopy (painted with flowers), herbal preparation (in a clay pipe of excitingly erotic shape). "Lovely, ain't it? And me, I'm Captain Jack Sparrow, Pirate Lord o' these parts. You'll have heard of me, I'm sure."

"I heard they was givin' the title to all an' sundry," snarls Barbossa. "Even you, Jack Sparrow."

"Bilges!" reminds Jack brightly. Is that a flicker of amusement from Blondie? Doubtless Barbossa's wrought his usual charming impression on the fellow.

"Baku," says Barbossa 'twixt his teeth. "And where might that be situated?"

"Why, Captain Barbossa! Forgot your maps and charts, have you?" But the charming red hue of Barbossa's phiz indicates to Jack that t'other's patience is at an end, and with a courtly wave of his pipe he concludes, "Welcome, gentlemen, to the Caspian Sea."

* * *

Barbossa's a tad mollified by Sparrow's abject apologies, though it's a pretty fix he's in. Sparrow, in a flattering display of sycophancy, has had a blacksmith remove Barbossa's shackles (not to mention Shaftoe's); has sent for cushions, sweetmeats and strong drink; is leaning forward, conversing with Barbossa in a manner that's both respectful and amiable. Admiring, even.

'Course, it might be a ploy. But Barbossa's equal to Jack Sparrow any day o' the week, never mind how prettily Sparrow might leer and sway and wink. (It ain't escaped Barbossa's notice that there's a certain confrontational frisson 'twixt Sparrow and Shaftoe, too. Shaftoe, the lunatick, ain't interested, any fool can see that. Sparrow'd best cut his losses there.)

"Tell you what, Captain Barbossa," Sparrow's saying, in that honeyed silky drawl that makes Barbossa's teeth ache with suspicion. "I'll make you a deal. _You_ c'n have the Caspian, with its phantastical trade opportunities and gateways to wealth untold -- not to mention delightful local traditions such as the manufacture of Greek Fire, some very int'resting dance routines, and, oh yes, trafficking in slaves. Virgin territory, you might say." His gaze flits to Shaftoe. Shaftoe glares back. "There's passage to the Northern Ocean and thence to the fabled East, well clear of interference from the disturbingly scarified Sao Feng or that truculent harpy Mistress Cheng. And you'll be shot of the King's Navy, and the hordes of fledgling privateers writing home to Mama, and the pox-riddled whores who frequent the Bride, and the dismaying climate …"

O, it sounds like sweet reason, and Barbossa's heard tell of the fabled Orient and its easy pickings: but he's known Jack too long to be taken for a fool. "And what profit be in it for you, Jack?"

"I find the climate here don't suit my complexion," says Sparrow, with a moue brazen as a harlot's. "I prefer it ... hot." There's heat aplenty, like a promise, in his black stare. Barbossa looks him in the eye and tells himself the prize ain't worth the payment.

"You'll be wantin' the Caribbean, then," says Barbossa, nonchalant as you like. "Ne'er mind its manifold shortcomings as catalogued by yourself. Though I'm disinclined to contemplate any such exchange absent some telling details: f'r instance, you'll be showin' me the bearing of this northern passage 'fore I spare another thought for trade."

"Passage?" says Jack, hand curving in a gesture that's surely calculated in its lewdness. "I sh'll be happy to show you my --"

Shaftoe sighs loudly and gulps his wine with unnecessary gusto.

"Is there a problem, Mr Shaftoe?" enquires Sparrow, all concern.

"'Course not," lies Shaftoe with alacrity. "Except inasmuch as I've naught to add to this exchange."

"O, I wouldn't say that," says Sparrow, licking his lips in a way that no-one could construe as innocent. Shaftoe scowls: Barbossa shifts on his silken cushion, adjusting himself surreptitiously. "Though it's true my business with my good friend Hector, here, can't be of any great interest to a fine, _upstanding_ fellow such as yourself."

"Grand," says Shaftoe. "'Scuse me a moment, eh? Need to piss."

"Round the back," Sparrow directs him. "Past the scullery."

"So that be your notion of a mutually profitable agreement?" Barbossa enquires once Shaftoe's out of earshot. "My Lordship for yours, Jack Sparrow? The Caribbean for the Caspian?"

"Aye, that's about the … size of it." Sparrow leans precariously closer, his breath warm and sweet against Barbossa's skin. "Do we have an accord?" he murmurs.

It's been a while since Barbossa was free to indulge in pleasurable company: never mind the deal on the table, he finds himself tantalised by the notion of an entirely non-geographical exchange. _'Tis Jack,_ he reminds himself. _Ye don't trust Jack as far as ye c'n throw 'im._ But he's past caring about his own good advice: it's been a long time since he dallied, a long time for that matter since he had clean garments and good food and a soft mattress beneath him: and Jack's smile, dark and wicked and hot, promises all those things as adjuncts to the deal he's soliciting with every word and glance and sigh.

"I've still to be convinced," Barbossa prevaricates. "You've yet to show me hard evidence," and he can't resist a glance at Jack's groin, though he can't make out a scrap of evidence in that region.

"True," says Jack readily. "I -- where's Mr Shaftoe got to?"

Barbossa shrugs. "Let the man take a piss in privacy," he says. "Ain't we better without his ... company?"

"Hmm," says Sparrow, frowning. "Wait just one moment: there's something I need." And 'fore Barbossa can prevent him, he's up and gone.

* * *

Jack Shaftoe doesn't give a shit about whether Sparrow's hammering out some Byzantine deal with Barbossa or merely flirting with him. Just goes to show: you can take the pirate out of the Caribbean, but you can't take the Caribbean out of the pirate. Nor does Jack have the slightest interest in their reminiscences, or the continued well-being of either fellow. No, given his unexpected freedom, Jack's going to be out of this quaint Eastern urb just as soon as he can. Though first he'd like to even the odds a bit.

Sparrow's house, or palace, or what-d'ye-call-it, is done out like the Eastern Promise, a fancy knocking-shop in Drury Lane from which Jack had been ejected following an altercation concerning silverware. Plenty here -- gilded boxes, squat sweet-smelling jars, the odd brass trinket -- to fund the continuance of his journey East, though his rough trowsers and threadbare shirt are sans pockets and he's short of anywhere to conceal such items. P'rhaps there might be something of value, absolute or relative, in Sparrow's private rooms; something that could turn a quick profit and leave Jack unencumbered. Surely Sparrow'd pay a sweetener for the return of that map he'd promised to Barbossa -- assuming Jack can locate said map in the first place.

On the other hand, he prides himself on a certain professional skill in these matters.

Sparrow's chamber isn't hard to locate. A great sprawling bed, big enough to accommodate half a dancing-troupe (Jack firmly diverts his mind from lewd and extravagant thoughts of what might've passed between the stained sheets); a litter of empty bottles, tattered papers, dirty linen; a pervasive reek of hashish, incense and sweat. Homely, thinks Jack.

There's a map-case, a long tube of oiled leather, stuffed under the mattress. Jack sits down on the edge of the bed to examine it, but bounces hastily back to his feet when the mattress exhales a gust of musky odour. The room's gloomy, only a little light creeping in through the carved wooden shutters, but by dint of squinting and tilting the map he can make out familiar shapes: there's Spain, and the triangle of England, and the broad expanse of King Louie's empire. (Jack can't read the cramped scribbles that adorn the various lands, but it scarcely matters what a place is _called_ , as long as you know when you're in it. Though it's a shame there isn't an X to mark the site of his current cogitations: You Are Here. The exit is thataway.)

The map-case fits neatly down one leg of his trowsers, like a Frenchman's baguette: but as Jack turns to leave the room he notices _another_ map, half-hidden beneath a grubby frock-coat. This one isn't a roll of parchment or vellum; it's bigger, stiffer, like a rolled-up mat, and when Jack plucks it from its hiding place it turns out to be made of thin slats of wood, cunningly stitched together and ornamented with foreign-looking writing.

He's barely begun to unroll the thing when there's a soft footfall in the passage outside: he startles for a moment, then deftly nudges this new map back under the concealing brocade, plasters a happy-idiot smile on his face, and braces himself for Disputation.

And ... breathe. Turns out it's only one of Sparrow's whorish dancing-girls, swaying sinuously into the room and closing the door softly behind her, begging silence with a slender finger to her lips. Or where Jack presumes her lips to be, anyway: that heavy black robe envelopes her from the crown of her head to the tips of her toes. She might be ugly as sin under the -- what did Pagur call it? -- the _burkah_ \-- not that Jack's biased; a professional's a professional the world over. And Christ, it's been an age since he's had a girl of any kind at all.

"Beg pardon," he says, sweet as could be in a language that he only barely speaks and which sounds like a mouthful of gravel. "I was just looking for ... company."

"Do you see anything you like?" whispers the girl, undulating towards him. Her painted eyes gleam dark in the narrow eye-slit of the robe.

"Well, I --" essays Jack, wishing he'd thought to locate some ready cash for sundry expenses such as this: then all pecuniary considerations are driven from his mind as the girl sidles right up close against him, as something sharp prickles at the hollow of his throat, as a familiarly, silkily masculine voice murmurs, "'Cause _I_ do, Mister Shaftoe."

* * *

Shaftoe's mouth is red and wet and most promising in its startled state. Jack wonders if perhaps he's been overdoing the hashish, just a tad: hashish would explain why he wants to taste Jack Shaftoe's surprise. Wants to taste Jack Shaftoe, who's quivering against him -- well, vibrating, like a stay under tension. Will he hold, or will he break? Jack can't help worrying that they've got off on the wrong footing.

Though p'rhaps donning Hezik's robe to sneak up on Shaftoe might've given a misleading impression.

"Int'resting example of classical Greek cartography you've come across," he says amiably. "And since I've taken a liking to you -- oh," as Shaftoe's mouth opens wider, "don't disparage it, doesn't happen every day -- and I'd hate to see you caught up in the flotsam of our good friend Hector's plans. What say we make a deal?"

"I thought you were engaged in a ... a _deal_ with your good friend Hector," says Shaftoe. His throat moves against the tip of Jack's dagger, and the skin frets red. Jack eases the pressure, just slightly. With his free hand he unfastens the burkah's hood and shoves the clammy cloth away from his face. Christ, it's hot inside those things.

"Thing is," he confides to Shaftoe, "Barbossa's an untrusting man. Doesn't believe a word I say."

"Astonishing," says Shaftoe, and surely that's the tic of a smile at the corner of his mouth? Emboldened and encouraged, Jack smirks back at him.

"Perhaps _you_ could be of assistance," he says. "Assuming, of course, that sincerity's in your repertoire."

"Why, Captain Sparrow," says Shaftoe archly. "What do you take me for?"

A question which Jack forbears to answer, given the vividly pornographickal scenarios that spring to mind at Shaftoe's phrasing. He forces himself to the business at hand: though he does feel obligated to point out that Shaftoe's just been purchased as a slave on Jack's behalf, if not behest, and had best learn --

Shaftoe growls. It's enough to make Jack shivery.

" _You_ take the map -- assuming that the object in your trowsers," he succumbs to hunger and gropes Shaftoe's meaty thigh, eliciting a sharply-inhaled curse, "is in fact a map and not an ad-hoc manifestation of your appreciation -- to Barbossa downstairs, and tell him just how very _hard_ and _arduous_ was the getting of it. And while you're at it, don't forget to add a fib or two about how you've sailed these waters coming and going, north passage and south, from scenic Baku to the quays of Cathay, the stews of Singapore, the, the brothels of Burma."

"How d'you know I haven't?" demands Shaftoe.

"'Cause there's no such bloody passages!" hisses Jack. "But let's keep that 'twixt you and me, savvy?"

"I'll be happy to keep something between us," retorts Shaftoe: counter to his words, he's still pressed tight against Jack. Or mayhap Jack's pressed tight against him. Anyway: Shaftoe isn't struggling enough to mean it.

"And in return for your abetment," Jack concludes, "I'll give you a most favourable rate for your onward journey."

"Rate?" says Shaftoe. "Wait: land, or sea?"

Jack rolls his eyes. "Pirate, mate: which d'ye _think_?"

"You just said --"

"There's ways an' ways, Mr Shaftoe. I'd refer you to that there cartogram," Jack indicates the mystick Cathayan chart rolled up on the night-stand, "but it don't work for every man ... jack."

Appreciation of Jack's small wordplay sparks in Shaftoe's eyes. Encouraged, Jack hurries on: "And for a small fee -- for which I'll be asking deposit in advance -- I'll show you a way out o' here."

"What makes you think I'm interested in learning your ... ways?" enquires Shaftoe.

"You'd rather stay in Baku with good ol' Hector?"

"Point," says Shaftoe. "Thing is, I came out without my purse."

There's purses and purses, but Jack avoids the obvious anatomical repartee. "Quite all right, Mr Shaftoe. I'll take my down-payment in ready currency."

"What's that?"

"A kiss," says Jack, swaying close -- closer, as closer as he c'n get -- again. Dear Lord, Shaftoe smells good: that is, he smells of himself, not of oil and perfume and eagerness, like the pretty boys (and girls) of Jack's recent experience. Jack Shaftoe smells of yeast, and sweat, and salt and musk and skin. His breath isn't that bad, considering: Jack knows this because Shaftoe is _laughing_ , or possibly choking.

"A _kiss_?"

"Come on," says Jack impatiently, forbearing to mention that, being currently the property of J. Sparrow (Captain), Shaftoe hasn't a leg to stand on when it comes to withholding consent. Jack's never cared to force anybody, and anyhow Shaftoe doesn't seem the sort to submit without a fracas, never mind Jack's Moral -- or more accurately Immoral -- Right. "I'll make it worth your while."

"The last bloke who said that to me turned a companionable Amble into a clear Profit," murmurs Shaftoe.

"If it makes you feel any better, I negotiated a substantial discount," says Jack irritably.

"Negotiated? Haw! You bilked him!" crows Shaftoe.

Jack quells him with a look (or tries to, anyway.) "That's my proposal, Mr Shaftoe. Take it or leave it."

Jack has to congratulate himself on his own 'suasive skills, because Shaftoe -- unpredictably, unexpectedly, unbelievably, Shaftoe takes it: or, rather, he stands there all passive and lets _Jack_ take it. Lets Jack press his mouth against Shaftoe's own, lets Jack's tongue tease its way in, lets Jack's thigh push slow and subtle 'tween his own, lets Jack's hands slide up beneath his filthy shirt -- must get him out o' that -- against warm skin that's slick with sweat.

Someone's groaning, and it's not (not just) Jack.

* * *

There must be something in the water, or the wine, or the air, or perhaps the very saliva of this peculiarly attractive creature, because Jack Shaftoe is not now, nor has he ever been, in the habit of kissing his fellow men. Girls aplenty, granted, but never a man. 'Til now.

There's something perversely appealing about Jack Sparrow. (Later, Jack will attempt to assess this perverse appeal: he will run out of fingers to count, accounting Sparrow's more desirable traits, and he'll lose count every time -- every minute -- he recalls the heat and darkness of this kiss. Later.) Jack, new-come to slavery, to the edge of the Orient, to the exotic drugs and philtres with which he's evidently been dosed, finds himself impelled as t'wards a precipice: and like a man perched precariously on high, he experiences a terrible, wonderful urge to fling himself into solid blue air. Into this incendiary, alchemical kiss that's transforming every inch (some inches more than others) of his corpus, transmuting him from a man who doesn't kiss other men into a man who does. Or at least, a man who kisses Jack Sparrow.

Though Sparrow's doing all the kissing and that's neither fair nor right. Jack may've been 'mutated into some indeterminate state 'twixt the man he was and the man Sparrow's making him, but it's not in his nature to merely let things happen to him. _Lie back an' think of England_ , rasps an itchy whisper in his ear: but Jack's damned if he'll take the passive part, and what's the use in thinking of rainy shabby England when he's here on the brink of the Fabled East? (He suspects that whisper's in his head: it can't've been Sparrow, for Sparrow's tongue is otherwise engaged, and it's parlaying with Jack's own. Nobody else around, unless Barbossa's wandered in to watch...)

"So," Jack manages at last, disengaging Sparrow's mouth by dint of fingers knotted in the man's ridiculous hair. "I'm your slave, eh?"

"Don't hold with slavery, me," says Sparrow, with pleasing breathlessness. "Though of course, if any of my property were to unaccountably wander off, I'd be forced to take measures to retrieve it."

"Well," says Jack, his hand on Sparrow's collarbone working counterpoint to his words, "I'm an Englishman, an' we're constitutionally unsuited to slavery. So I'll have to insist, Captain Sparrow --"

"Jack," interjects Sparrow huskily.

"--Jack, that you set our, our _association_ on a more equitable basis."

"Let's imagine I give you your freedom," muses the pirate, his hand trapping Jack's wandering own. "I s'pose you'll be off like a shot?"

"Depends," says Jack, trying to think of a good reason to abandon this unlooked-for attraction and proceed on his solitary way East. He's better alone, relying on his sinews, his wits, his smile to smooth (or at least clear) his path. There are riches aplenty and he'd sooner not --

Fuck it. Jack's not in the habit of cutting his nose to spite his face. He'd sooner make the most of what Fate presents to him, with the option of flight as soon as opportunity sours

"Give me my freedom," he says, "or I'll take it. But give it free, and I'll let you make it worth my while to stick around. For now."

"Most generous of you, Jack," whispers Sparrow, right against the divot 'neath Jack's ear. Sparrow's tongue snakes out across his skin -- Jack can't stop thinking about that tongue and where else it might be 'suaded to snake -- and Jack makes a bestial noise and tugs Sparrow closer, wishing that he could just take a knife (and hang on, ain't there a blade in Sparrow's other hand, still?) to that ugly black burkah, unmake it from neck to raggedy hem and reveal ...

He trails a finger down the stubble-rough line of Sparrow's throat, down over his collarbone, and Sparrow sighs and writhes against him in a way that men (and the vast majority of women, at least in Jack's experience) don't writhe. Ergo, Sparrow ain't a man -- though there's an undeniably masculine pressure 'gainst Jack's leg, a pressure he's pleasantly surprised to realise he's returning -- and therefore this, this interlude can't count as sodomy or buggery or whichever exotic perversion it might be tallied against.

'Sides, it's only a kiss. And something, a clear little voice in Jack's head, tells him that by the time it's anything more, he'll be able to use that time-honoured excuse of being at the mercy of his humours, swept up in animal sensation, wholly sans choice in the matter.

Jack wants to crow with glee, but he's otherwise occupied right now, kissing Jack Sparrow, rutting against him, utterly ignorant of what it is he wants but willing -- eager -- to be led to't.

Then, of an instant, Sparrow's pulling away, head cocked as though...  
  
"We've an accord," says Sparrow, low and breathless, and flashes Jack a smile that glints gold. He steps back, tweaking his robe into some semblance of propriety while Jack's still gasping and grasping, and takes up his little dagger from the dresser. "An' I'll remind you --"

Outside the door, a board creaks.

"-- you're my property, Jack Shaftoe, to do with as I please."

* * *

Barbossa's half-hoping to catch Sparrow and Shaftoe in some compromising position: if naught else, a man's easier robbed when he's distracted by pursuits carnal and concupiscent. But, damn it, Shaftoe's not succumbed to Sparrow's inarguable charm. Instead, they're facing off: there's a dagger in Sparrow's hand -- easy to forget he's not as harmless as he looks -- and a map in Shaftoe's.

Sure an' certain, though, that Sparrow'd had seduction on his mind when he swaddled himself in one of those voluminous robes the women wear. Barbossa enjoys a brief flash of triumph at Sparrow's ineffectual harlotry. Though the ink-black cloth suits a multitude of situations -- Barbossa'd bet it's nigh as effective as a hauberk when it comes to close fighting.

"Captain Barbossa!" says Shaftoe cheerily. "Hear you're after a map that'll show you the sea route out of here."

Sparrow's lip curls. "Thought you was on my side, mate," he says, bitter as salt.

"Nobody's side but my own," says Shaftoe smugly. "Here!"

He hurls the map-case at Barbossa, who snags it out of the air 'fore it can stab him in the eye. He slips the map out, tosses the leather case aside, unfurls it and holds it at arm's length -- though he's careful not to block his sight of _Sparrow_ , who looks fit to burst with pique and has, 'sides, a knife.

[ ](http://www.freaky.nu/glorious/misc/SlavTrade-map.jpg)

"What be this map, Jack?"

"Copy of Periegetes' finest," evades Sparrow. "As used by Alexander the Great."

Barbossa snorts, his eye tracing the coast of this Caspian Sea, up to the north past Muscovy (vicious cold there, he's heard) and out into the Northern Ocean. "Ice in winter," he observes.

"Course there is," says Sparrow mockingly. "But when the ice melts, why, there's the Orient and all its treasures, there for the taking, without let or hindrance."

"For a man as has a ship," observes Barbossa. "Yon chart's no use to me absent a vessel o' me own."

Sparrow muses a moment, finger to his lip in a way that makes Barbossa want to bite him. "Funny you should say that," he says brightly, just as Barbossa's patience runs out. "It just so happens that there's a fine ship in the harbour, wanting employment."

"The _Pearl_?"

"The _Pearl_ 's five fathom sunk," says Sparrow mournfully. "I've had to make do -- though I assure you I've made very well. The _Ruby Rose_ is a fine galleon: forty guns, carronades, three-decker, with --"

Barbossa holds up a hand, and Sparrow bites back the rest of his Trade Description.

"And what'll you profit from this exchange?" enquires Barbossa, already (and always, with Sparrow) on the lookout for loopholes. "What's in it for yourself, Jack?"

If he stresses 'in', it's no more'n any red-blooded pirate would do, confronted with Jack Sparrow all glinty-eyed and swaying. Though there's no sign that Sparrow apprehends that secondary meaning: his mouth curves down, mugging distress. "I'm hurt that you'd think --"

"Tell ye what," says Barbossa graciously. "We'll say no more o' this accord. Ye be lettin' me go free from here, Jack, and keep your Lordship as I keep mine. I'll be sure to give your regards to the Brethren Court."

"Fair enough," says Sparrow blithely. "And I'll give yours to my good friends in Port Royal: they do love a tale of treachery and enslavement, and I'll be sure to spin some elaborately detailed ... details of your sojourn with the slavers. The great Barbossa broken! Brought before me chained and weeping --"

"It'd make an excellent play," offers Shaftoe thoughtfully, as though he's on _Sparrow_ 's side after all.

"Or you can take the deal and we're square," says Sparrow, hands folded together in some fancy foreign obeisance. (Mere months here and he's gone native. Barbossa's lip curls.) The knife has disappeared inside that shapeless garment, but Barbossa'll bet it's ready to hand.

He takes his time furling the map: digs his hand into his pocket and closes his fingers 'round the coin stitched into the lining. (Fortunate that the slavers didn't venture to search him too thoroughly.) "One condition," he snarls.

"Name it," parries Sparrow.

"You walk out of here with the clothes on your back -- nothing more," says Barbossa. Sparrow'll balk at that, for sure: he'll want his creature comforts, his treasures, his vittles.

"Deal," says maddening Jack Sparrow. He doesn't offer to shake hands: turns away, rummaging with unnecessary vigour beneath the black robe, until with a pleased exclamation he produces a round wooden ball.

Barbossa recognises it, and wrinkles his nose.

"No worries," says Sparrow. "I washed it most thoroughly." Without further ado he tosses it to Barbossa, and holds out his hand for the pierced silver coin.

"'Til next time," he says insouciantly to Barbossa: and to Jack Shaftoe, who's standing there arms crossed, watching with evident relish, "You: with me."

"But --" says Shaftoe.

Sparrow slides him one of those languorous looks -- a twist of unease in Barbossa's gut, his first assay proven true -- and Shaftoe visibly bites back whatever protest he'd been going to make. He plucks Sparrow's fancy coat from the dresser, and follows his new master from the room, meek as a lamb, leaving Barbossa alone with a map, a ship and the prospect of the fabled East.

 

* * *

Jack Sparrow's progress through the twisty streets of Baku is as near a straight line as the town's geography permits: which suits Jack Shaftoe down to the ground, for his sense of north, his orientation, is all askew, and Sparrow's lithe form draws him like iron to a lodestone. He's mazy with ... with lust, _'fess it Jack!_ , and he might as well be lost in an uncharted wasteland for all the notice he's taking of the market-stalls, the street-cries, the whores and pimps and tavern-keepers who periodically sidle 'cross their path and are repelled by a gesture from Sparrow and a few idiomatic phrases.

Fortunately Jack's well-accustomed, and genetically predisposed, to such reversals of fortune, fate and phant'sy. His familiar spirit -- that Imp inferred by brother Bob, that Imp that incites Jack to merry wickednesses -- whispers lovingly in his ear about the acts that Sparrow might have Jack perform, the skills he'll teach, the payments he'll remit.

Lost in a reverie of anticipation, Jack shies at sudden heat: a pillar of flame, fountaining from the pavement before him.

"Come along, Mr Shaftoe," instructs Sparrow, not sparing the miniature volcano more than a glance. "Look sharp, and stop gawping at the local attractions: we've miles to go yet."

Jack plants his feet more firmly on the paving-stones (though not before checking for other infernal emissions), folds his arms and scowls. "We?" he says. "You'd better remind me what benefit there might be for myself."

"Mr Shaftoe, by the custom of this land you're _property_ \-- aye, I know you 're your own man, no slave you, habeas corpus, droit de seigneur, et cetera." Sparrow's abandoned his burkah somewhere on the winding route from his former palace. Now he's clad more decently, in trowsers and a linen shirt and a fancy brocade coat that's seen better years. His eyes, though, his eyes are snapping black and irresistible as sin. "Surely you'd sooner depart for quarters where your career opportunities extend beyond the role of," his tongue swipes hypnotically along his upper lip, "Pleasure Slave?"

"An' that's another thing," says Jack brusquely -- brusque because temporarily distracted by thoughts of his introduction to the aforesaid role. "I don't recall agreeing to _that_ clause of your Proposal. Just," he waves the rolled-up chart, "the cartographical parts."

Sparrow's gaze follows the chart. It's remarkably reassuring, that: it means Jack's still got something to bargain with, some measure of insurance should Sparrow suffer a change of mind viz. Jack's … qualities. On the other hand, Sparrow's aren't the only eyes following the sweep of Jack's arm: they're attracting attention, audience, obstructions. Jack nods to Sparrow, and they're of an accord: instantly on the move again, shoving their way through the gathering crowd, heading downhill towards the distant cry of gulls.

"I've another proposition," says Sparrow, once they've left the majority of their audience behind and are negotiating the dank alleys behind the quay. "What say you give the pleasure-slave thing a try? If it don't suit, why, then you're welcome to stay in quaint, traditional Baku -- but if you find you've an aptitude for it," (he's staring at Jack's mouth: Jack can't help but swallow) "then maybe I'll take you with me."

"What's to stop me finding another ship bound north?" demands Jack. "Or indeed _any_ ship, yours allegedly being, what was it, full fathom five?"

"Nothing, nothing at all," says Sparrow affably, in a tone that Jack's already learning to distrust. "I feel I should remind you, though, that this is not actually a sea of any kind, more of a _pond_. (And incidentally, I didn't tell Barbossa the truth about the _Pearl_ : she's round the headland.)"

Jack's silent, incorporating this information into his world-view, future plans and present ambitions. They're at the quayside now, and a bustle of small boys surrounds them instantly, clamouring for attention and tugging at their sleeves and at the embroidered tails of Sparrow's coat. Sparrow swats them aside and heads t'wards the sea end of the quay, where a battered dinghy's moored. He tosses a shiny coin to one of the lads, who shyly produces an oar longer than he's tall, and gestures for Jack to embarque. Sparrow shoves off and leaps in with remarkable elegance and one wet boot, and then he's inexplicably dipping his hand into the green waves.

"Here!" he says, and his wet hand's against Jack's mouth, fingers pushing ...

Jack can't help but open his mouth, though he manages a muffled protest 'round Sparrow's long, dirty fingers.

"Not salt," he confirms when he's allowed to speak again, when Sparrow's withdrawn his hand and settled himself to scull out past the tall ships.

"See? A pond," says Sparrow. "It lacks ... savour." He licks his lips, frowning, and Jack's cock leaps helplessly. "Salacity," pronounces Sparrow at last, and it sounds like a threat: like a promise.

* * *

Sculling round the headland -- at least the tide, if you can call it a tide, is in his favour -- takes years. Aeons. It's bloody difficult to scull with Jack Shaftoe right there in the boat, his well-worn breeches stretched over his muscular thighs, lounging back with his arms stretched along the transom, smiling and smiling and thinking furiously (Jack can practically see the gears and escapements of his brain engage and disengage behind that blue gaze) about his predicament. Nah, his _situation_.

Jack won't force him. He wants Shaftoe to come to him freely, to kiss him ardent and hungry as he'd kissed in the gloomy bed-chamber of Jack's erstwhile Pleasure Palace. He wants Shaftoe to fall asleep next to him, and wake there too, and do it all (it, _it_ , all an' everything) again, of his own free will, of his own free want.

Not that Jack's want's in any way unequal to the situation.

Finally, after several centuries of splinters in his palms, twinges in his back and sweat beading on his face (it's hard work, sculling a boat whilst looking strong and manly and eminently desirable -- 'specially with Jack Shaftoe right there, close enough to touch), the _Pearl_ 's black hull casts the dinghy into Stygian shade, and a rope ladder skitters down from the deck.

Shaftoe goes first, quick and handy: he's been 'round boats, all right, which sh'd make his presence easier to explicate. Jack follows him up (it's honestly not his fault that he's getting such a fine view of Shaftoe's arse) and takes a moment to quell his crew -- that part of it engaged in honest, or rather _useful_ , labour on deck -- with a glare.

"This here's Mr Jack Shaftoe," he announces. "An' through his beneficence, we're homeward bound. Any hands still ashore?"

"Aye, Cap'n," says Joe Henry. "There's --"

"You'd better round 'em up then, eh?" Jack jerks his chin at Shaftoe. "I'll be ... conferring with Mr Shaftoe," he says. "Not to be disturbed."

Is Joe sniggering? Brat.

It's a measure of Shaftoe's effect on Jack -- and naught to do with his sudden adjustment of status and domain -- that Jack actually considers apologising to Shaftoe for ... for what? For calling him a Pleasure Slave; for purchasing him in the first place, albeit with a purse of clipped coin; for bringing him aboard the _Pearl_ in such a high-handed hasty kind of way; for...

But all this blather's driven from his head as Shaftoe shoves him back against the bulkhead, kicks the door the rest of the way shut, and applies himself to the unravelling of Captain Jack Sparrow with tongue, with lips, with hands, with his bones and muscles and heft and strength, with the smell of his skin and the noise he makes when Jack's mouth opens to his, with...

Jack's almost certainly sure that Shaftoe's new-come to this. He doesn't know how Shaftoe came to be delivered to him: he's already looking forward to hearing Shaftoe recount that tale -- doubtless in an entertaining, if not wholly _truthful_ , manner.

Time enough for stories later. Time now for giving Shaftoe a taste of what he's been missing, so ignorant and unlessoned; time to turn it round so Shaftoe's the one with his back to the _Pearl_ 's solid timbers, panting and gasping and groaning and eagerly hard 'gainst Jack's exploratory palm.

"Done this before?" Jack murmurs, and Shaftoe shakes his head, blue eyes wide and blown, chest heaving like a bellows.

"'Cause I'd say," Jack goes on, curling his fingers to cup Shaftoe's prick through the straining cloth of those revolting trowsers, "you've an aptitude for't, Jack."

"Nah," objects Shaftoe breathlessly, "it's jus'..."

"Just what?" Jack rubs his knuckles along the rise of Shaftoe's cockstand, slides his hand round and under the cloth, flexing his fingers against the sweet curve of Shaftoe's arse (better come to that gradual) and sinuating himself against every inch of Shaftoe within reach.

"Just _you_ ," says Shaftoe, his expression an admixture of indignance and amusement that's infinitely more flattering than helpless lust. "Ju-- o Christ, Jack, put your hand on me!"

"I sh'll do better," promises Jack, and without further ado he drops to the deck (ignoring the momentary twinge as his knees impact) and yanks at the waist of Shaftoe's trowsers 'til he can get his mouth on Shaftoe's cock.

Jack's own cock hardens painfully at the sensation of heat and hardness pressing in, at the phant'sied sensation of it pressing elsewhere, at the primitive growl that Shaftoe's making as Jack's mouth opens round him, as his muscles tauten and his hips buck forward, as _Christ_ a Deluge bids fit to drown, to choke, to inundate Jack.

Jack swallows: Shaftoe swears: they stare at each other for a heartbeat, and for that heartbeat's Jack's lost in drowning blue. A single heartbeat: then, "Give me...!" he Jack urgently, bracing himself as Shaftoe sags above him: Shaftoe emits a dazed indistinct noise, and Jack pinches him, hard, on the tender crease of his thigh.

"Ow! What the fuck --"

"Come _on_!" Jack's thoughts are too muzzy to explain reciprocity or fair trade: but right, good, Shaftoe gets it, Shaftoe's bearing him down to the (dusty) deck, shoving his rude marvellous hand into Jack's britches, taking hold o' him like a man who's -- all right, he's probably been practising with his own -- and one two three, "F-f-fu--" four, Jack's spurting and spending, paying Shaftoe in his own coin, done deal.

* * *

Jack Shaftoe's wholly sure, now, that he's lost beyond recall: not only has he engaged in carnal acts with this hot-mouthed, salt-hearted _pirate_ (who is, to boot, a _man_ ) but he's astonishingly, unnaturally, _perversely_ keen to educate himself in the committal of further wickednesses.

Sparrow, assuredly, will be an excellent tutor.

Jack's been presented to the _Pearl_ 's return'd crew, and vice versa. Sparrow didn't actually introduce him as "my latest leman", but Jack'd seen 'em all thinking it. Well: there'll be time enough to prove himself more than just a concubine -- never mind if that was the initial reason of his recruitment.

"Something amusing you, Mr Shaftoe?" enquires Sparrow, sidling up next to Jack as he stands by the capstan, staring out over the blue Caspian Sea. Sparrow's mouth is still red from kissing, and he reeks of seed and sweat.

Or perhaps that's Jack.

"Just ... contemplating my _role_ aboard this fine vessel, during our voyage to ... where're we bound, anyhow?"

Sparrow's smile warms Jack to the bones. "Where should you like to be bound, Mr Shaftoe?" He reaches past Jack for the bundled chart, and it's no accident that his hand brushes Jack's bare arm, nor that Jack leans into the ... the touch.

Sparrow unrolls the chart. It's all Greek -- nay, Cathayan -- to Jack: the shapes of the lands are strange, and he's scarcely surprised when Sparrow sets his long fingers against the varnished wood and it _moves_ , changes, the map changing as circles revolve within circles like clockwork, like engines, like the world turning.

"And where might we be, you and I?" Jack murmurs.

"You an' me, Jack?" says Sparrow absently, spinning the chart and squinting at the wheel, the sun, the circling gulls. One hand's on Jack's shoulder, one's on the ship's wheel: now he turns the _Black Pearl_ into the brisking wind, and Baku recedes like a fever-dream behind a sudden curtain of mist. "I reckon we're free, the pair of us, to do as we please."

"Does that mean I've discharged my contractual obligations?" says Jack.

"I'd say it makes 'em somewhat more ... reciprocal," says Sparrow.

"Haw! An' I s'pose you're content to be my Pleasure Slave?" mocks Jack.

"Oh," murmurs Sparrow, with a sly sidelong look from beneath his eyelashes that has Jack hardening in an instant, "I think you'll find I can be surprisingly ... pleasurable."

The ship's turning faster now, spinning widdershins, and Jack can't see the shore at all. It's perversity, coincidence, fate that makes him feel still and fixed, certain sure at last of where he is in the world.

* * *

The servants -- slaves -- crew-members obey Barbossa's every whim: a pleasing remedy to the events of recent weeks. Pagur Bey and his gang of Armenian slavers have apparently departed with unseemly haste on discovering that their former captive's become, of a sudden, the local Pirate Lord. No doubt they'll be back once they've located a suitable source of Tribute. And if any tales get bruited about, why, there's none in the Caspian who know Barbossa's name.

Yet.

Bathed and dressed in fine clean clothes (albeit of a nasty foreign fashion), Barbossa bellows for escort: he's off to inspect the _Ruby Red_ , his new flagship.

The crowd mills and mutters as he processes through the narrow streets of Baku. (The place is ripe for plundering: mayhap he c'n make it seem the work of some other faction.) If the folk here are 'customed to Sparrow's ways, they'll want a mort of enlightenment. No decent pirate'd hold with Sparrow's lackadaisical approach to the weighty nobility of a Pirate Lord.

O' course, Sparrow might be lurking still. Or down at the harbour, making a nuisance of himself. Barbossa turns to the nearest guard, intentional of persuading him to seek and eject his former boss: but the lummox stares back at him, clearly uncomprehending.

And there, out past the headland...

" _Sparrow!_ " howls Barbossa. Certain sure, that's the _Black Pearl_ , Jack Sparrow's darling ship: and Barbossa wants her for himself, if only so Jack has her no more.

There's a wind whirling up and around, whipping flume into mist like a cloud around the _Pearl_ Dimly, for an instant, he sees her tops'l lashing as though in a gale: she's spinning like a ship caught in a maelstrom. And then -- then there's sunlight slanting down where the _Pearl_ sailed a moment since, and nary a spar to show her sunk.

"Sparrow," says Barbossa, caught twixt anger and admiration, and skewered by the sudden certainty that the deal's a cheat, and himself the dupe.

No matter. He's not a man to let that lie. He'll take the _Ruby Red_ north, out o' these waters and back to the shallow blue seas of the West Indies, and he'll chase down Jack Sparrow and his perfidious catamite, and ...

The sea's calm, and blue, and empty.

-end-.


End file.
